


folie à deux

by low_fi



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Emotional Manipulation, Exes, F/M, Falling In Love, GNC Elias Bouchard, Gaslighting, Hostile Work Environment, M/M, Major Character Injury, Murder, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Permanent Injury, Slow Burn, Smoking, Unhealthy Relationships, canon typical elias awfulness, the magnus archives is a workplace comedy, with its fair share of drama
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:01:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26145298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/low_fi/pseuds/low_fi
Summary: "The Magnus Theatre continues to baffle with its persistent survival.Elias Bouchard's artistic direction is too capricious for his overworked little company, his only stage manager (Jonathan Sims), as well as the mercilessly aging ballet mistress (Gertrude Robinson). How the Theatre functions at the scale it does is a mystery perhaps best left in the hands of the producer, Peter Lukas, and his seemingly infinite supply of funds.As it stands, Mr Bouchard does beautiful work as director, rather than principal dancer - but perhaps he ought to remember he is no longer the star of the show."★★★☆☆DISCONTINUED
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Sasha James/Tim Stoker
Comments: 30
Kudos: 66





	1. entrée

**Author's Note:**

> it's wild that we actually ran with this idea. it's been tremendous fun. - low_fi
> 
> Hope you all enjoy reading this as much as we do writing it! - ink
> 
> !! heed the warnings. this work is occasionally dark in tone and includes emotional abuse/manipulation/gaslighting etc. (courtesy of Elias and Peter). please read at own peril.
> 
> EDIT: hi, listed author here. due to personal reasons this fic is discontinued. I might leave it up for a while, but the fic's dead and that's that. Thank you for reading.

**_1992_ **

The adrenaline of performers and crew is palpable. Behind and above him, hundreds of bodies are twisting, stretching, rushing like electricity along narrow corridors and passages. The hum barely reaches the back alleyway behind the Magnus Theatre, where Elias has sought refuge for a quick smoke. His shadow carves out an angular shape in the fluorescent rectangle of light spilling from the doorway. Even separated from the action, the residual current makes his skin itch in jittery anticipation.

He inhales, hot smoke filling his lungs as he waits for the nicotine to enter his system, dissipating the tension in his body.

A minute movement from the shadows catches his eye.

“You’re not supposed to be back here,” he calls out to the alleyway.

“And you’re not supposed to be smoking,” a familiar voice replies.

Peter steps out from his place in the shadows and joins him in the metal doorframe marking the emergency exit.

Elias shrugs at the rebuke and tips the cigarette in Peter’s direction.

“Get that vile thing away from me.” He jokingly slaps at Elias’ arm. Elias settles back, his shoulder pressed into the doorframe, and takes another puff.

“Your loss.”

They linger together in the doorway in a comfortable silence, smoke hanging in the warm summer air before dissipating into the night. Finally, Elias comes to the end of his cigarette, twisting the butt into the brick of the theatre’s facade before dropping it onto the sidewalk. Peter’s eyes haven’t once left him. He turns to him with a languid stretch, letting his wrists brush up against the doorframe.

“Did you hear; we sold out again tonight.” His tone is blasé, deliberately tampering down that undercurrent of adrenaline once again seeping through his skin.

“Did you, now?” the amusement is thick in Peter’s voice, “Then maybe you should be backstage getting ready, instead of hanging around smoking in alleyways. What was the show, again?”

Elias laughs, his fingers landing on Peter’s forearm, tracing small circles.

“You know, for someone whose family’s so entangled with this theatre I’d expected you to take more interest in it.” 

“Ah, but I have been taking interest—in its handsome soloists.”

“All of them?” he feigns shock, hand covering his open mouth.

“Well, maybe just the one.”

Peter’s hands encircle his waist, pulling him in close before he nuzzles his face into the junction between Elias’ neck and shoulder. 

“Stop it,” he hisses, squirming half-heartedly in Peter’s grip, “you’ll mess up my makeup.”

“Elias, don’t be such a prima donna.”

“Why not, wouldn’t that be great?” he stops struggling, resting his head back against Peter’s shoulder, “Elias Bouchard, _premier danseur_. Star of the Magnus Theatre.” 

“I’d never hear the end of your demands then, would I?” 

“I suppose I’d have to ask one of my other doting fans to cater to my whims then instead.”

Peter scoffs. 

“Somehow I don’t think any of the others share my talent for sneaking backstage unnoticed.”

“Funny how a man of your size is so good at staying unseen.”

“The trick is to wear all black.”

The distant PA crackles to life, just audible from the corridor: “House opens in ten.” 

Like a switch is flipped, the moment of playful levity is over. Elias untangles himself from Peter’s arms, and peers into the hallway. Any minute it would be full. He’s aware of the thundering of his heartbeat, that pre-performance rush that makes the world suddenly so much more crisp. He turns back to face Peter.

“I should go.”

“Right then—good luck tonight.” Peter leans in only for a hand to land on his lips, pushing him back.

“Peter, you can’t say that! You’re going to jinx me.” 

“What _do_ you want me to say, then?”

Elias leans in close, their lips a breadth apart. 

“ _Merde_ ,” he whispers. 

Peter bursts out laughing, taking a step back.

“You can’t be serious.” 

“Deadly.” He crosses his arms and sets his jaw to prove his point. 

“Well, all right then: _merde_.” His rhotic _r_ twists the word into something half-recognisable. 

Elias smiles and feels Peter's scratchy beard tickle his face just before he kisses him.

*

The moment he lands he knows something is wrong. As he touches down from the double tour, electric pain jolts through his ankle. His jaw clamps together into a strained smile with so much force that his teeth twinge in protest. He steels himself and launches into the fouettés. The second his uninjured foot leaves the ground he realises the mistake and sucks in a sharp breath, his ankle nearly giving way beneath him under his weight. 

He lands, pivoting back onto the uninjured leg. Clearly, the rest of that combo as rehearsed is a no-go, but he’s a professional—the show must go on. 

He tilts his chin higher and seamlessly moves through the steps, modifying jumps and turns as he goes. He wills his mind to get lost in the artistry, letting the thrall of the story and of the crowd take over. The adrenaline takes over and the sharp pain in his ankle fades into a persistent ache, and finally a numb twinge as he ignores it and pushes through. The music comes to a close and he strikes his final position, the roar of applause washing over him. He is the star; he is a god. 

*****

Elias darts into the wings, pressing himself flat against one of the legs to allow the swarm of the female corps members to push past for the group number. The assistant stage manager only gives him a passing nod, her eyes returning to the stage and whispering logistics into her headset. 

Heartbeat thudding in his ears, he pushes further, towards the hallway to his changing room. He’s coming down from the performance rush, the call of the crowd and the music slowing to its regular pace. His ankle twinges in protest and he braces himself against the prop table before shifting his weight to sit on its edge and catch his breath. The pain doesn’t go away.

He catches a movement from the corner of his eye—Peter, a black figure framed against the equally black walls of the theatre starts towards him, a smile on his lips. He doesn’t have time for this.

“Congratulations!” his hand lands on Elias’ upper back, and he instinctively twists away.

“Don’t congratulate me. I missed so many steps. Didn’t you notice?” the words come out far stronger than he’d intended, laced with irritation.

From the way Peter flinches, he realizes it’s a misstep; snapping like that was unwarranted, but he can’t think straight at the moment, that persisting pain overriding his thoughts. 

“I’m sorry,” he begins again, quieter and softer, slipping his shoe off and rolling up his tights to get a better look at the offending ankle. Already, the joint is swollen, and he can see the start of a bruise lining the side of his heel. He tentatively prods at it, “Could you fetch me some ice?” 

He looks back at Peter, whose expression is slowly shifting from confusion to mild horror. 

“Elias, what did you do?”

He clenches his jaw, a mixture of frustration and pain. He _really_ doesn’t have time for this right now. He’ll need to change costumes and be on again in 20 minutes. If he can still walk.

“Don’t worry about it. Just get some ice. There’s a freezer in the security office.” When Peter doesn’t move, he throws his hands emphatically towards the door. “Now! Please!” 

He can feel the anger building, clouding his mind and taking up precious time. This will not be a discussion. He hopes that the desperate look he gives Peter conveys that. 

Peter seems to get the message, shaking his head as he backs away towards the backstage door. He catches one last bit before he vanishes into the hallway:

“For fuck’s sake, Elias.” 

*****

**_2015 - present_ **

It’s a generally agreed upon thing that in almost twenty years, the Magnus Theatre has not had a talent to match that of Elias Bouchard. 

This is not for lack of trying. In the years Jonathan Sims has worked here, Elias, as Head, has sifted through enough dancers to populate a small country. The last big name anyone remembers would have to be James Wright, but even he eventually fell short of Elias’ expectations and ended up jumping ship around 2012. 

There are those who believe that Elias, since his retirement as a dancer, has grown bitter. As far as Jon knows, they’re the minority; to most people in the ballet world, Elias remains a well-respected authority, in no small part because he searches for the best of the best—and if he does not find it, he doesn’t settle.

Personally, Jon doesn’t care one way or the other. His work is in management and organization, and as stage manager, he tends not to have time to judge Elias. Him having a habit of 'forgetting' meetings and giving pretentious and drawn-out feedback is another thing entirely, and truly—the least of Jon's worries given the incessant bumbling idiot of a designer he’s ended up with.

He has to give him that much—Martin is not talentless. He wouldn’t be working for the Magnus Theatre if he were. That is, however, where Jon’s (already generous) praise of him ends; since the beginning, there hasn’t been a single thing Martin hasn’t managed to bungle up somehow. On a schedule as tight as theirs it’s practically a miracle he hasn’t been fired yet. Jon is not the artistic director—that’s Elias, of course—and doesn’t consider himself a connoisseur, and perhaps this is where his own ignorance lies. He has to imagine even the most patient of bosses is justified in their annoyance when their set and lighting designer shows up to meetings five minutes late and without half his materials. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Martin sits at the table and tucks his legs neatly under it, settling in, “Got caught up.”

Jon fixes his glasses with the knuckle of his thumb and looks up from his laptop. Martin glances at the two empty seats at the white plastic table. 

“Elias might be late,” he remarks awkwardly after a moment, and fidgets with his folder. 

Jon blinks. “Why would that be?” 

Martin’s eyes trail over the ceiling. “Just a feeling.”

It’s perfectly obvious. The reason has echoed up and down the corridors on more than one occasion. Jon takes a seat with a quiet sigh.

“Arguing with Gertrude again?” 

Martin adopts a pouty expression and nods. 

“So it would seem,” he says uncertainly, both index fingers tapping slowly on the folder. 

The silence is pervasive. Jon is fully aware he can’t as much as lift a finger without the artistic director’s instruction, especially not when they’re so close to closing the already-late design area of the production. All it would take is Elias’ seal of approval on a few final touches; why anyone would choose petty arguments over the satisfaction of finally crossing the last item off the list is beyond him. 

“Peter?” Martin asks, breaking the quiet so unexpectedly that Jon startles. He only processes the question when he follows Martin’s eyes to the second empty chair. 

Ah. Their absentee producer; strange and elusive, partly considered an urban legend by those dancers and crew who don't personally deal with him. Jon doesn't like him, but it's more of a professional frustration than any personality quirks - not being able to get in touch with the producer through any means, except perhaps sending a pigeon, is enough to drive an already-overworked stage manager up the wall. 

“When was the last time you saw Peter Lukas at a meeting?” he snaps before he can help himself. 

Peter's job, outside of managing the Magnus Theatre's expenses, is being rich. As far as Jon knows, he comes from the notorious Lukas family, with his uncle - Nathaniel Lukas - warming a seat on the Board. While Peter appears to have little interest in the Magnus Theatre itself, he orbits Elias like a moon and simply throws money at any expenses Jon slides under his nose - when Jon manages to catch him, that is. 

Martin’s shoulders bunch and he ducks his head, sorting through his folder. Jon clicks his tongue and crosses his arms. 

The door opens and in strides Elias, immediately falling into his revolving chair at the head of the table. It spins a little with his momentum, but he stops it by bracing his feet on the floor. 

“Sorry I’m late, lost track of time,” he says lightly, lounging, “Are we done?” 

Jon takes in Elias’ outfit of the day. He had dressed conservatively for most of his career, but since the grey hair had started coming in, he has taken to patterned shirts, of all things. And khaki. 

“I don’t have all day, boys, I have to be out of here in,” he checks his watch, an obnoxious thing that must’ve been a gift from one of the Theatre’s sponsors, “fifteen minutes.” 

Jon does not remark that he would’ve liked to have been ‘out of here’ five minutes ago. 

Elias straightens slightly, the ghost of a smile fading from his mouth. “Have you both gone deaf?”

Martin springs to life. “Right! Here. Um. It’s fixed.” He slides the open folder across the table. Jon catches a glimpse of two symmetrical shapes.

Elias cocks his head to the side. “Oh, yes. Better.” He flips the folder shut. “Fine.”

Martin pales. “Fine? Tha-that’s it, just, I’m good to go?”

Elias cocks an eyebrow. 

“I like the balance, and the shape. It’s much lighter, more graceful. Get it done,” he rattles out, his tone negating any thought put into the words. He turns to Jon. “Where’s the costume designer?”

“You fired her two weeks ago,” Jon points out, “Martin’s filling in until Mr Lukas finds a new one.”

Martin helpfully pushes the folder back towards Elias. Elias takes a look at what appears to be a series of colourful costume sketches for the dancers.

“Yes, all right,” he rubs his forehead, “I suppose it won’t get any better than this. Go.”

Jon looks between them.

“Well, go,” Elias shoos him away, “Go!” 

“I'll go with him,” Jon scoops his laptop up, “If that's alright.” 

The last thing they need is Martin's inability to point out mistakes. 

“Of course,” Elias is suddenly glued to his chair, “Meeting disbanded.” 

“Well, that was fast,” Martin says in the corridor, clutching his files under his arm, “D-do you think he just got tired of my designs?”

Jon is reluctant to discard that theory, but it's also not likely. 

“Elias is a perfectionist,” he informs coldly, “If you were doing something wrong, you would know.” 

Martin lets out a tired little sigh.

“I guess that's reassuring. In a very stressful way.” 

“He wouldn't accept less than perfect, Martin,” Jon sighs, holding back a groan. 

“Oh. Well… thank you for saying that.” Martin clears his throat.

Then, to Jon's surprise, he keeps going. 

“I kept thinking about the… about the intrinsic weight of these huge, giant objects made of wood. I forgot I could do anything I wanted with them.” He coughs. “Stupid mistake, I know, but I just went back to some of the first drafts I ever made and… pieced something together. I hope they come out well.” 

Jon doesn't know what to say. “And the costumes?” 

“Huh?” 

“The corps de ballet. Act one.”

Martin lights up like a Christmas tree, then slumps back down almost immediately. 

“Well, you know this isn’t really my… department,” he wrings his hands, “I’m just glad he okay’d it.”

“We do still need a costume designer for some of the more complex outfits.”

“Ah. I suppose so.” 

Jon follows him to the lift, pretending the quiet is comfortable. 

Elias has always been unpredictable, dragging details out for weeks and then suddenly accepting a whole new project out of the blue—and it never gets any easier to deal with. He decides to focus on crossing the act three graveyard duet set pieces off his list, and moving on to more pressing matters.

The list never ends.

*

Huddled in the parking lot and getting thoroughly whipped by the chilly wind is not the perfect way to spend a break, but Jon has few other options. As a unit, they create enough of a nicotine cloud to keep their ex-chainsmoker of a boss at a healthy distance, and after the rough morning (and an hour spent with Martin and the carpenters’) the last thing he needs is Elias’ sharp brand of conversation. 

“I bet he has a whole roster of favourites,” Tim gestures with his sandwich a moment before Sasha takes him by the wrist and drags it to her mouth. He snatches it away and keeps going. “That he just flips through.”

“I'm pretty sure he does,” Sasha flicks her lighter to life and puffs on her second cigarette. Jon wordlessly leans in so she can light his as well. “But he can’t keep it up much longer. He’s going to have to choose someone, or he’s going to end up with an unprepared principal dancer. Again.”

Martin nods, thoroughly preoccupied with his poppy seed roll. 

“Maybe that’s what he wants,” Tim says, putting on a voice, “Can’t stomach the thought of a woman being better than him. You would’ve been the star already.”

He lightly taps the cigarette in his other hand, sending a cascade of ash trickling to the ground. Sasha squeezes his jaw in her hand and turns his face lovingly, so he sees the grin on her face. 

“Where would we females be without you?” she wiggles his head from side to side and lets him go, eliciting a quiet laugh. 

Jon takes in the familiar smell and realises he’s sighing, spewing smoke from his nose. He wipes his upper lip and sniffs. 

Tim nudges him under the ribs, mouth full of his last bite. 

“Yes,” Jon flinches, speaking not so much reluctantly as with his characteristic flatness, “That does sound like Elias.” 

Sasha shrugs, unbothered. 

“I don't know. He doesn't strike me as very… conservative. And he did promote Elsa von Closen,” she tips her head to the side, “Before Wright and… what was his name?” 

Jon looks up. “Mendelson.” 

“Richard Mendelson, yeah.” 

Tim scoffs, discarding the crumpled sandwich wrapper and dedicating his full attention to the cigarette. He checks his phone, which is attached to the same lanyard as his administration badge and house manager pager; the whole mess clatters loudly when he lets it go. 

“He may be modern, but he's still a snob.” 

“Irony,” Martin mutters. 

Sasha smiles and Jon is once again baffled by her patience. The air between them is so thick with smoke that everything appears blurry and desaturated, and as the minutes tick by, he begins to worry he'll reek of it later. 

“I should be on my way,” he crouches down to put his smoke out on the curb, “Sasha. I'll see you at rehearsal.” 

He ignores Martin's parting wave and makes his way back to the building, tossing the butt of his cigarette in the rubbish by the door. 

As he reaches the back entrance, he recognises the familiar hulking figure leaned against the inside of the doorframe. Daisy is drinking coffee from a large blue mug, her large shoulder braced against the wall. 

“Jon,” she greets him with a nod. 

“Hello, Daisy.” He stops when her gaze doesn't move. “I'm in a rush. Is something the matter?” 

She studies him for a moment, taking a sip of her coffee. 

“If you're going up to Elias' office... you might want to give it a few minutes.”

Her eyes flick up to the ceiling, then settle into a subtle roll. Jon thinks he hears the faint echo of shouts. 

He sighs. “Again? It's a miracle he hasn't fired Gertrude yet, the way they—”

“No, not her,” Daisy shakes her head and adjusts her position uncomfortably, “The producer.”

*

One of the things Elias most enjoys about his office is that it is quiet. One of the things he enjoys about _Peter_ is that he is quiet. When the two are combined, however, it seems things always end in shouting. 

“All right,” Peter takes a breath, squeezes the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes, his expression sour, “Fine. So at least the designs have gone to the carpenters, yes?” 

He looks annoyed. In recent years, his beard and hair have gone from black to a very dark grey, irregularly streaked with lighter strands. Elias has considered suggesting dye, but it isn't really his place anymore, and anyway - he wouldn't have Peter know he _looks_ at him. 

“You'd know that if you showed up to the meetings,” he points out, tapping his foot. 

He should feel steadier in his own office, but he has grown to accept he will never be fully comfortable in the administrative aspect of his work. The weight of the old building presses down on him, the old-fashioned furniture contrasted by sleek modern technology. If there were anyone he could trust with the position of Head, he would've happily handed it over, but alas - there isn't, and he's lying to himself. 

“How about our _prima ballerina_? Made that decision yet?” Peter asks, with slightly less accusation in his tone—but Elias feels his blood boil anyway.

“I do not settle for mediocrity, Peter,” he says coldly, linking his hands behind his back, “As you well know.” 

Peter's face goes still. 

They are both painfully aware of the space between them and how hard it's become to navigate it. Infinite pathways are drafted and discarded; how to set his feet, which path to take to keep Peter at a distance without making it overtly obvious that he's doing so. Getting used to a routine and enjoying it are such deeply different things. 

“Make it work,” Peter says. His voice quickly returns to its usual lightness. “How about that James girl?” 

Elias exhales. “No. She does well enough, but she doesn't bring anything… special to the table.” 

“Who does? They're all young girls, Elias, and they all think they're replaceable with how you switch them out every rehearsal,” Peter snaps his fingers. “Of course they're afraid of being unique. You punish it at every turn.” 

Elias raises his eyebrows. “If you can't stand the heat, get out of the kitchen.” 

Peter sits on the edge of Elias' desk and smiles. 

“That's how you end up cooking your own dinner.” 

Elias is fully aware he's trying to diffuse, but his head hurts and he can feel himself aching for another fight. The subject is painful, and the idea that one of the girls might actually be good enough - frightening. Peter oversteps, always, without ever wanting to. 

Elias sits heavily in the chair by the wall, propping his elbow up on the armrest, and counts the metres between them. Two, maybe two and a half. Strangers. Peter has his legs stretched out in front of him, the heels of his polished shoes braced against the floor. There has always been something sweet about him. Elias pushes the thought away. 

“I would love to cook my own dinner,” he says, rubbing his temples, “Truly, Peter, there is nothing in the world I would like better than to do it all by myself, but unfortunately, that is no longer an option for me.” 

He lightly pats his right knee. Peter looks away. 

“It is what it is,” he says eventually, ignoring Elias as he stands, “We have a show to put on. I'll see you tomorrow.” 

Elias rubs his forehead. The distance between them is like its own physical thing, an object filling the room and pushing them apart. 

“Don't you want to come to rehearsal?” 

“No, not today.” 

“Are you going to show up to next week's meeting?” he asks, a little sharper now, “Or do you have some important family business again?” 

Peter stops in his tracks.

“What do you think I was doing, having a picnic?” he asks. 

“Well, I'm sure you'll tell me,” Elias sweeps a hand about the room. 

Peter approaches. He breaches the invisible barrier of 'strangers' and steps closer, causing Elias to tense in his seat. He abruptly realises he doesn't remember the last time Peter as much as shook his hand. 

“I've put twenty years of my life into this theatre, Elias,” Peter's voice is low, like a tremor, “And I'm not going to watch you run it into the ground. My family is on the verge of withdrawing. Did you know that? Does anything even get through to you anymore?” 

His tone rarely carries anger, only honest displeasure. Elias closes his eyes. 

“They're not going to withdraw.” 

“No, they're not, but that's thanks to me,” he places a hand on his own chest, “Not you.” 

Elias sighs. It's time to placate him; there's little sense in arguing, they've learned that over the years, if nothing else. He just can't seem to force the words out of his mouth. 

Peter storms out, knocking the door open and disappearing beyond it.


	2. relevé

_**1992** _

Peter finds him in the third rehearsal hall in the basement. Even before he cracks the door fully open, the faint sounds of a Stravinsky recording pouring through tip him off to Elias’ presence. He sits in a straddle in the centre of the room, elbows propped up against the floor, furiously stitching into a pair of ballet shoes. Peter waits for some sort of acknowledgement or reaction, and when none comes, he speaks.

“I’ve been looking all over for you. We had dinner plans, remember?”

Elias looks up, as if caught off guard, an expression Peter might call sheepish if he didn’t know better.

“Sorry, time got away from me.”

“Well, if we hurry now we can still make the restaurant.”

But Elias has already turned back to the shoe in his hands, fiddling with one of the elastics. Peter sighs, mentally resigning himself to another night of takeaway. He inches into the room, half expecting Elias to tell him off for keeping his shoes on, but he shows no sign of acknowledging him again. A small spark of irritation nags at him and he forcibly exhales. He’s been holding back, but now he’s forced to say something.

“This is ridiculous. You need to take a break.”

Elias twists to face him from his position on the floor.

“A break? I already had a break; that mishap last month cost me two performances. And I don’t need to be able to peer into Smirke’s brain to know what that did to my chances of moving up in the company.”

“So your plan is to give yourself an overuse injury instead? Yes, that’s really smart. I bet Smirke would love that.” He all but spits the words, residual frustration of the past weeks finally coming through the cracks.

“What do you know about any of this?”

The words feel like a slap across the face. Elias is furious, that much is clear from the gleam in his eyes and the tension in his body, like a large cat about to pounce. That anger is building and they’re only seconds away from a nasty row if he doesn’t diffuse the situation. He swallows back his own hurt and changes tactics.

“I worry about you. You push yourself too hard.”

“I know what I’m doing, Peter,” he replies evenly, that tension still there, lurking just beneath the surface. He looks down at his hand, unclenching it and the shoe nearly crushed in its grip. He pulls at the elastic band, as if judging his work. Then one leg curls inwards and he slips the shoe on, then the other.

Peter makes one final push.

“Come on, let’s get something to eat. It’ll all be there in the morning.” _Please, you stubborn prick._

Elias stands, and for one brief moment relief floods through his chest as he thinks he might’ve finally gotten through to him. Instead, Elias pushes past him, taking a spot at the barre. He pulls himself straight and begins his warm up.

Peter slams the door on the way out. The music swells behind him, as if adding insult to injury. But there’s no injury. This is fine—he’ll eat alone then. It’ll be peaceful. He likes the peace and quiet.

*

Sasha’s one of the last to arrive at class. Not late, of course, (she would never) and Gertrude like won't arrive for another ten minutes, but spaces by the barre are slowly filling up, and she finds herself setting her bag down further from the edges of the room than she’d have normally liked.

She sets her water bottle down underneath the barre, within reach. The hall is large and eerie, the grey marley floor shining and tinged yellow by the stark fluorescents. She works out some of her nerves by moving her shoulders and making sure her bun is secure.

She watches the other dancers moving around. Some are doing quick warm-ups; a few of the guys have banded together near her and over the general buzz, she can hear them chatting about the production.

They’re opening this upcoming season with a contemporary piece, one of Elias’ own. This will be a first for her after the long string of classical pieces the theatre had put on the roster. Presumably, whatever phase their artistic director had been in has ended, and the switch comes as a welcome change.

Sasha recognizes two of the men as Elias’ new picks—the Love Interest and the Magician—if not by face, then by the vibrant energy that seems to radiate from them. Elias had truly waited until the last possible minute to choose his soloists for this piece; running the dancers through drill after drill, swapping them out during rehearsals almost haphazardly in what she’d concluded must be a carefully-perfected form of psychological torture. When two candidates for the male leads finally emerged, positively glowing with excitement and relief, Sasha couldn’t help but vicariously share in those same emotions.

This was, of course, well over a week ago, and had she not heard the plot of this new story from Jon she wouldn’t have even guessed that there _was_ a female soloist from the way Elias had been acting. It’s hardly shocking to have a female lead, of course, but with Elias, you just never know; he’s been known to do all kinds of things on stage, from crossdressing to all-male reimaginings, so ‘the Maiden’ might really not be a woman at all.

It does seem a distinctly female role, though. The story is a simple one; a young girl, the Maiden, falls in love with a good, honest, but poor young man. He loves her dearly, but when the dark, mysterious Wizard is introduced, the girl immediately takes to him.

It’s difficult to say if the Wizard is the villain. He is presented as such, but in actuality, no actions taken by the girl are controlled by him. He brings magic and opulence into her life; she follows him happily. As the story progresses, he begins to teach her magic - sweet, exciting scenes, until, of course, her beau finds out.

The young man attempts to rescue her from the influence of the villainous Wizard, not realising that she does not wish to be saved. The Wizard casts him into the spirit world - a horrible, lonely place, devoid of life and feeling.

In Act Three, the Maiden is the one who makes the choice. She can either fight for her beloved—try to rescue him from the spirit world, reject magic and risk angering the Wizard—or she can continue along her path to discovery, leaving her heart behind.

Perhaps, if this were a story written by someone other than Elias, she would’ve gone back for her beloved. They would’ve fled from the Wizard together, finding peace and solace in each other, and she would’ve forgotten magic and power in the name of love. But that is not what happens; they dance their duet, yes, the beautiful Graveyard Duet between the planes of the living and the dead, but she does not choose him. The Maiden, though sad and pained, turns away—choosing herself over the fool whose help she did not need.

She is an ambitious, strong-willed heroine. She is the focus of the story. And—all this time, to her Sasha’s knowledge, Elias hasn’t so much as looked at the female dancers. With the final months of rehearsal drawing close and the role of the Maiden utterly empty, the anxiety amongst the company is palpable. She wonders if Elias feels it too, or simply hasn’t noticed.

Gertrude strides into the hall with long steps, instantly commanding all of the attention in the room. She moves with the speed and purpose of a woman decades younger.

“Right then, places, everyone. First position. Let’s go!”

The dancers hurriedly file into rank at their places on the barre. Sasha closes her eyes as the pianist starts to play, slowly losing herself in the meditative quality of the sequence. The room is quiet, save for the music, the rhythmic sliding of feet along the marley, and Gertrude’s barked corrections:

“Shoulders down. More turnout, Hope. Sarah, I know you can go higher than that.” Sasha feels a jab at her backside and she instinctively pulls further in. “Watch your hips, Sasha.”

The flow of class is welcome and familiar, and Sasha falls back into the zone, running through the familiar steps and letting her muscle memory take over. She almost manages to forget everything else entirely, right up until the shout.

“You have no business being here. Get out.”

The temperature drops in the room with the rapid change of atmosphere. Sasha whips her head around to the source of the sound. Gertrude is standing between two barres, squaring off with the director, still stood in the doorway, arms crossed across his chest. Every dancer in the room watches, silently, waiting for the impending standoff.

“You’ll find I have every bit of business being here, considering this is _my_ theatre, and my company.” Elias’ voice is calm and barely audible over the music, still playing, although each of the pianist’s notes is more hesitant than the last. Nobody seemed to be moving anymore, the exercise long forgotten.

“You’re a distraction, both to me and to the dancers,” she says, coming steadily closer to him. Without breaking eye contact, she sweeps one hand behind her.

There is a rapid shiding of feet as the dancers immediately turn to stretch, no one wanting to be singled out for their idleness. The pianist springs back into action, playing a flowing piece to accompany them. Sasha stretches, one foot on the barre, trying to keep an eye on the happenings through the reflection of the distant mirror. She’s not the only one: everywhere she looks dancers bend and move, subtly watching from the corners of their eyes, ears straining to hear the hushed argument taking place.

“How about I just take a seat here, then, and leave you to it,” Elias finally says.

He drags one of the chairs from the corner of the room, dropping into it and crossing one ankle over his knee. The placating, pleasant smile he gives her doesn’t reach his eyes. For a moment, Gertrude looks like she might continue the argument, but instead lets out a huff and turns back to the room.

“Clear out the barres and take your places. We’ve wasted enough time this morning.”

Gertrude outlines the combos with curt, clinical precision. They move faster, her corrections barked, rather than sternly given. A bead of sweat slides down Sasha’s forehead, catching in her brow, as she fights to keep pace. Gertrude is driving them far harder than usual, though whether it’s a result of her foul mood or the director’s watchful eyes from the back corner, she cannot say. She doesn’t dare check his reflection behind her, instead forcing her chin up, eyes glued to her own shape as she runs through the moves as cleanly as possible.

She’s not alone—when they move to the corners, she makes eye contact with the dancer on her left. Face shining under the fluorescent lights, she shoots Sasha a strained, sympathetic smile as they take their places.

They make it through two rounds across the floor before it happens.

Sasha ends the combination at the front of the room, feet closing into fifth position. Before she can move to the sides and out of the way, the music comes to an abrupt stop. From the current that runs through the room she already has a suspicion of what she’ll find when she turns. Elias is standing, arms crossed in front of him, commanding full attention.

“Hold on a moment,” he says, crossing to the front of the hall, eyes never leaving the group. “You there, in the middle, in the blue. James, is it? Run through that combo again.”

“Elias!” Gertrude hisses at him, “you’re interrupting my—”

“Shh.” He holds up a finger, then turns back, waiting.

She realizes, with mounting horror, that he’s staring right at her. The dancers on either side melt away, leaving her alone in the hall. She hesitates a moment before the request hits her, and she springs into action, resetting at the back of the room as fast as her shoes would allow her.

The pianist restarts and she moves through the combination, through steps and turns, all the while praying that none of the tension coiling in her gut seeps into her movements, making them stiff. When she reaches the end she turns back to him, trying to read his face. His usual impassive expression offers no answers.

“Do it again,” he says, “but instead of the waltz, turn pas de bourrée en tournant, swap out the pirouette from fourth for a tour en l’air, a double if you can, and end holding an attitude on relevé. Also, give me an emotion.”

_What?_

She turns to reset, subtly dabbing at her brow. This makes no sense. Why would he give her a jump she’s never done before? A jump meant for men, no less. And what’s ‘an emotion’ supposed to mean? This must be what it feels like to be on the other side of one of Elias’ ‘tests’ and she doesn’t envy the others who must have come before her.

Her right foot slides back behind her, and she thinks of the Maiden, and the elation and joy she must feel when first introduced to magic. She brings that excitement into her steps, jumping as high as she can in her spin. Her landing is clumsy and halfway between rotations, but she recovers and continues on, dancing her way into that final shape. She holds the balance, waiting for a signal to come down. Elias doesn’t move, just watches her. Seconds crawl by at an interminable pace, feeling like hours. She hovers there, teetering under the strain, a pained smile plastered to her face. The muscles in her calf burn. She can’t hold this much longer, but Elias remains absolutely still. She teeters too far forward and knows that’s the end, hastily collapsing into fifth, heart hammering. Did she fail?

Elias’ hands drop to his sides. He looks her up and down appraisingly before finally nodding.

“Not bad, Sasha.”

And with that, he turns and walks out the door.

A beat of silence hangs in the air before the entire room bursts into excited titters. All around her, she can hear whispers. Before she can turn to anyone to process what just happened, a loud clap brings the room back to silence and towards Gertrude. She scans the room with sharp eyes, ensuring every gaze is on her and every body at attention before dropping her hands.

“No more distractions. Everyone back to the corners. We’re doing it again.”

*

Sasha turns the corner at the speed of light, and from the look on her face alone, Tim knows immediately what’s coming. He has three seconds to brace himself before she launches into his arms. He catches her, the impact knocking him back a step, but still managing to keep his balance, his arms wrapped tightly around her waist. She grabs his face in her hands and tilts it to face her.

“Tim, you won’t believe it!”

“What?” he grunts, gently setting her down, “that you’re going to break my back one of these days? Because I believe that!” He sets his hand onto his spine in an exaggerated pose and hobbles to the wall of the corridor.

She rolls her eyes at him before the grin creeps back onto her face.

“No, listen to this: Elias was at today’s class. And he singled me out—by name.”

“I take it he must have had something good to say, then, considering the way you’re smiling. What, did he give you the stern nod? The ‘fine’?”

“Even better—a ‘not bad’.”

He laughs and clasps his hand onto her shoulder.

“Now, that _is_ a compliment! What do you think it means?”

"I don't know," she says, taking a step back, though there are enough thoughts flashing across her face to suggest otherwise, "It's good, though."

"It's really good," he agrees, slightly winded.

A sort of contented silence falls for as he watches her think, her eyes fixed on some point just under the horizon. She’s beaming. She looks completely lost in her own world, and it’s almost a shame to snap her out of it, but his own excitement is getting hard to contain.

He claps his hands together.

"We should celebrate! Drinks?" he raises his eyebrows, tempting.

"It's Thursday."

"That's basically Friday," he argues.

"It's just what I need, Tim, showing up hungover tomorrow and making a fool of myself in front of Elias," she rolls her eyes and begins to walk past him, but there is a smile lurking about her mouth, so he follows.

It really is deserved. With so many talented dancers doing the exact same thing in tandem, it can be difficult to spot uniqueness, to notice that extra bit of grace or fluidity or strength. Tim's used to looking at all of them at once; advertising the Theatre as one body, one mind, but he knew, and has known, that Sasha is special.

He can feel himself growing giddy. He wants to shake Elias by the collar and say, 'I told you so', though he never really did.

"Come on, you deserve it," he says, "It'll be nice. When's the last time we went out, anyway?"

She ducks her head and brushes a curl behind her ear.

"While we're young, Sash," he groans.

She smiles. " _Friday,_ Tim. And just one or two drinks."

*

Jon sighs at the report and puts it in the correct folder, then closes it and puts it on the shelf. Despite his best efforts (which, frankly, aren’t too good) his space is constantly and mercilessly cluttered.

From his desk to his extra chair, there always seems to be a few folders or books lying around; sheets of paper of indefinite purpose scatter themselves, unprompted, under his feet. It’s too much of a bother to go through them one by one most times, or God forbid throw them away and risk exposing employee data, and with his overwhelming workload he usually finds himself neatly tucking his problems away for later. His radio is always within grasping range in case he is needed downstairs.

As he is helplessly stacking papers, trying to find a file he must have misplaced, he hears footsteps coming down the hallway. A moment later, Martin passes by his office, quick and nervous, holding his phone in his hands.

A beat passes. The footsteps stop, then return, and Martin passes his office again, this time in the other direction.

“What is it?” Jon calls out, feeling his shoulders droop.

Martin slowly walks backwards into view, staring at Jon with a deer-in-headlights look in his eyes.

"What?" Jon asks.

Martin opens his mouth, then shuts it again, putting his phone away. "Nothing, really."

"Martin—"

He flinches and looks over his shoulder like a cartoon, then ducks into Jon's office and awkwardly closes the door behind him.

"C-can I talk to you?" he asks, with a noticeable stutter.

Jon sighs. "Yes. Sit."

He continues to go through his desk, and promptly finds the missing batch of documents in his top drawer. Something about finances—he should pass this on to Peter. If he ever manages to catch him. Jon knows he does it on purpose; Peter is practically famous for that subtle, personalised brand of callousness. Harmless—until you urgently need him for something.

As he's looking, Martin picks up a chair and sits on the other side of Jon's desk, peering at him from between two columns of stacked folders.

"Do you know why Elias singled out Sasha?" he asks once Jon looks at him, already wringing his hands.

“She told you too?”

“Didn’t have to—everyone’s already talking about it,” he leans forward in his seat, “But the _why_ is what I don’t get.”

Jon blinks. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"No, no, I don't mean like that," Martin quickly corrects himself, "Sasha is—is great, of course, she's fantastic. But Elias never noticed her before now."

"True."

Martin's eyes dart back to him.

"How long have you known him?" he asks, "Elias?"

Jon doesn't like that question. Martin obviously notices, because his eyes go wide and his fiddling only increases. Jon takes a breath.

"A few years," he shrugs, "I wouldn't call us friends, but he…" he stops himself. He's about to comment that Elias doesn't treat him the way he treats Martin. "We have a good working relationship."

That's not half as opaque as he'd hoped.

"Why do you ask?" he adds, flatly.

There is a beat of tense silence.

"So I did a quick search, all right?" Martin caves and takes his phone out of his pocket, then starts fiddling with it, "Not in a creepy way, just... stuff. Nobody has gone on to become a bigger star after the Magnus Theatre. Not since Elias, and he didn't really go anywhere, just stayed."

Jon tries not to roll his eyes. "Yes, I know this. What's your point?"

Martin's expression changes. Hardens, almost, if it were ever possible for that soft face to grow stony.

"What, you don't think that's weird?" he asks, with more confidence, "You don't think it's strange that all of Elias' dancers lose their spot here just as they're starting to get famous, and then never recover?"

Jon feels his stomach drop. "I'm aware that Mendelson and Wright both... ended their careers early, but it was an unpleasant business, and I would prefer not to discuss it. They're no longer affiliated with the Theatre."

"Jon, are you serious?" Martin taps the screen on his phone. "If there is something... going on, it could hurt Sasha."

"And what exactly is going on?" Jon runs his hands through his hair and rests his elbows on the desk, leaning in, "I know the Theatre's history. What are you suggesting? That it's—cursed?" he squeezes his temples, "Haunted? It's bad luck, that's all. Fame getting to people's heads."

Martin sits back with a sigh so deep his chest sags.

"Probably. I just don't want anything bad to happen to her," he purses his lips until his cheeks dimple, looks away.

Jon's irritation fades. Martin looks nervous and tired; his finger is tapping on the screen of his phone, his knee bouncing.

He sighs. "Neither do I."

The energy winds down and Jon is left with some residual tension he wants to be rid of as soon as possible. He takes a breath.

"Are you—going out tomorrow?" Martin asks suddenly, "To the thing? With Tim and Sasha?"

His eyes are round and curious. It's difficult to gauge his exact expression, but Jon thinks - guesses, really - that it might be hopeful. He frowns.

"Yes, I am. I wasn't aware it was a 'thing'."

"It isn't, really," Martin moves his head from side to side, "But Elias did praise her today, so." He scrunches his nose in momentary discomfort. "Well, uh… I'll see you there, I guess. Or... around."

He shuffles awkwardly out, always trying to sneak around, taking too much space.

After he leaves, Jon takes another look around his office, and promptly realises that in the giant, perpetual mess, he hadn't noticed that many things are… off.

Three stacks of paper on the floor near the potted plant, are all standing where they should—but the top pages have been switched around, two or three at a time, as if someone had quickly rifled through them and put them back at random. In one of the folders, several of the organizers had been taken out, and they slide out the bottom and into his lap as soon as he takes the folder off the shelf.

He wonders if he's going insane. His office is a mess, but it's a controlled mess—everything has a place. How can a whole stack of documents be sorted, but not the top? He remembers sorting them.

He runs a hand through his hair and finds sweat coating his forehead. The workload must be getting to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Let us know your thoughts. :)


	3. assemblé

**_1994_ **

It’s an open secret that the Magnus Theatre was built over a former prison. When a structural accident, driven by greedy contractors and cut corners, caused part of the building to collapse, it was the Magnus family who swooped in to salvage what was left of it and construct yet another testament to their wealth. As the centuries went on and the name Magnus waned from prominence, only the theatre remained as the sole remnant of that former splendor.

Whilst the theatre’s origins may be available to anyone willing to do an internet search, the building and the grounds still hold many secrets, for those who know where to look.

Elias, for example, knows of the door in the basement, and where it connects to the tunnels below, to rehearsal and dressing rooms that hadn’t been touched in decades. He’d explored them often enough in his childhood, fascinated by these time capsules and uncovering secrets no other eyes had seen.

The halls and doors are somewhat smaller than the imposing ones from his memory, nonetheless, he finds a similar comfort in them—and more importantly, a place to work and think.

He’d dusted off the mirrors and set up the CD player in one corner of the room, but otherwise left the hall exactly as it was for the past several decades.

He cycles through his warmup at the barre, calves straining as he tries to hold himself en pointe. The shoes are uncomfortable, unfamiliar, even after hours of practicing with them. He takes a deep breath and extends his leg higher. If the ballerinas can do it, there’s no reason that he shouldn’t be able to. All of the best, most famous variations are en pointe and he won’t let discomfort stand between him and the top.

He moves from the barre, going through the next sequences free-standing. The company is slated to do Swan Lake this season, and Smirke cast the roles this morning. He should be elated, his hard work having paid off—he finally has his first role outside of the corps, as von Rothbart. Yet that victory is marred by the twinge of jealousy festering within him; It’s not enough. Von Rothbart shares the stage, and it’s clear who will command all of the attention and praise—Odile, and her famous 32 fouettés.

Elias whips his leg out and launches into a series of turns. He stumbles, landing messily on flat feet before righting himself and trying again. He’s only marginally more successful. Frowning, he tries to hold the retiré, testing his balance. This shouldn’t be difficult. His frustration’s mounting, causing tension in his shoulders. He forcibly exhales, trying to shake it out before resetting and making another attempt. He spins, fighting to stay balanced with each whip of his leg, willing his calves and feet to hold their tension.

The creak of the old wooden floor from behind catches him entirely off guard.

“So that’s who’s been lurking down here.”

Elias freezes, nearly losing his balance. He falls back onto his heels and for one panicked moment thinks he might slip, but manages to catch himself with clumsy steps.

Gertrude stands just inside of the doorframe, arms folded across her chest. He suddenly feels very small, like a child with his hand caught in the cookie jar. There’s that first twinge of anxiety—but no, he’s done nothing wrong.

“I like having a quiet place to work,” he responds, voice deliberately level.

“I thought you were the attention-seeking type, Bouchard.”

He shrugs, then studies her as he takes slow steps towards his bag and the water bottle beside it. Her icy stare catches everything and right now they’re focused on his feet. He’s all too aware how clunky his steps are in the pointe shoes. She’s itching to say something, he can see it. He takes a swig from the bottle, closing his eyes and bracing for the worst.

“Your weight’s too far forward,” she finally says.

“Sorry?” he sets the bottle down. This isn’t what he expected.

“In your fouettés. Your chest is too far forward when you shift into second. Your centre of gravity is different in those shoes, and you’ll need to compensate. How long have you been practising?”

She’s walking towards him now and although he’s several centimetres taller than her, she still cuts a larger-than-life figure, with her authoritative voice and razor-sharp eyes. He finds himself intuitively slipping back into the role of a student, answering her question, the lull of her voice inviting compliance.

“Nearly a week.”

She nods.

“Have you been watching the girls?”

“Yes.”

“Well, watching and knowing are two different things. Go back to the barre. Start in fifth. I definitely want to see some tendus before I even look at your relevé.”

He does as he’s told. She watches from beside the barre, giving the occasional approving nod or correction. He falls back into the familiar tempo, finding his stride. Then, seemingly out of nowhere:

“Is this for Bottom?”

It takes a moment for the context to click, but when it does, he bristles, swinging away from the barre to face her.

“You think I want to play a donkey?”

A comedy role—really? Is that what she thinks he’s after? The comment stings more than he’d expected. She doesn’t seem at all phased by his outburst, no flinch or hesitation, watching his face with steady interest.

“Your ankle flexibility will need a lot of work, then.” The tension breaks as crosses over to stand beside him. “Hands on the barre and repeat after me.”

He doesn’t broach the subject again until they break again.

“It’s not fair, you know,” he says from his spot on the floor, fingers digging into the muscle of one calf.

“What isn’t?”

“That all of the good roles go to the women, and en pointe, at that. And here we are, carrying them around, and all the while playing second fiddle. I don’t see why I can’t have that too.” He shifts, switching to the other leg. “Push some boundaries—it’s nearly the 21st century, after all.”

Gertrude cracks a smile at that.

“Move over, Nijinsky, we have ourselves a visionary. But I don’t see why not.”

“Smirke is why not. He doesn’t think forward enough.”

“He’s not overly conservative, either,” she considers aloud, “Have you talked to him?”

“He won’t agree,” Elias rolls his eyes and stands, resting his elbows on the barre and leaning back. “Yes, naturally, he’ll pat my head and tell me what a clever, ambitious boy I am. But nothing will come of it.”

“But you’re not giving up,” Gertrude raises an eyebrow. She joins him by the barre, fingers grazing over its surface, a few steps away. Doubled by the mirror, she intimidates him even more. “Are you waiting for him to die off, or hoping he might change his mind?”

Elias gives her a look. “Whichever comes first.”

She smiles at that, just the corner of her mouth, turning away as if to hide. It’s quite satisfying. Just when he thinks she might warm to him, she raises a hand and lightly smacks the back of his head.

“Have you considered you’re just afraid of what he might think of you?” she asks, quite sternly, though the miniscule hint of warmth in her eyes is still there. He doesn’t give her an answer, and she wasn’t expecting one. “You don’t have to stay here if you don’t like it.”

“I want to,” he argues, his heart rate picking up. “I have put too much hope into this theatre to give up now. There is considerable potential here, and it’s physically painful to watch it go stale. The Board is partly to blame, of course,” he scoffs, “Nathaniel Lukas, with his ideas of fine art. And Peter agrees—”

“Who’s Peter?”

Elias freezes mid-sentence. “Nobody.”

Gertrude gives him a curious look. He feels his face heat up.

“I have to go ice my feet.”

“Peter Lukas?” she pipes up, lifting her chin as he walks over to his bag and begins to undo the ribbons on his pointe shoes.

He opens his mouth. “How would I possibly know Peter Lukas?”

She doesn’t smile, but he knows he’s sunk.

“Goodnight, Gertrude,” he says pointedly, grabbing his windbreaker and stepping into his trainers. His feet echo with dull pain as they settle into the shoes. He strains not to look back, yet is aware of Gertrude’s sharp gaze regardless, boring into the back of his head and he sweeps his things into his bag.

“See you tomorrow,” she says to his back as he hastily pushes his way out the door.

*****

Towards the evening, Jon begins to feel the weariness weighing heavy on him, as always. With a deep sigh, he pushes himself away from his desk and walks over to the corner of his office to make himself a coffee. His movements are lagging, tired. He watches the steam begin to rise from the mouth of the kettle and wonders, not for the first time, why he ever allowed himself to be sucked into the vortex of the Magnus Theatre.

He does like it. What he likes less is that it makes the perspective of spending an evening out with his friends—something he _does_ enjoy, no matter how much Tim teases him by suggesting the opposite—seem like a chore.

The kettle rattles all too quickly and he pops the top open, only to realise there’s only about a centimetre of water inside. He sighs and picks it up by the handle, pushing the door open with his elbow and making his way to the restroom.

He fills it up to the brim and almost sags under the weight as he carries it back, every ache he’s ever had in his neck suddenly acting up at once. He doesn’t even notice Daisy walking down the corridor until she physically leans into the space in front of him and gives a wave of her hand. He stops, startled.

“You all right?” she asks, low and perfectly cool, as usual. He has to smile a bit.

“Just tired. What are you doing up here?”

“Looking for you.” She stops properly now, looks him up and down. She takes the kettle out of his hands. “But you’re busy. Walk you back to your office?”

He nods and she changes course, joining him on the way. “Was thinking if you wanted to go out on Saturday. Or...next week. I’m thinking of inviting an old friend out. We haven’t spoken in a while.”

“Oh,” Jon tries to mask his surprise, “I see.” He blinks. “Wouldn’t you prefer to catch up privately?”

“Uh—,” she furrows her brow, face twitching a bit in discomfort, “No, I think… honestly, I think it might get awkward.”

She looks away and doesn’t seem like she’ll say much more, not unprompted; he struggles with himself.

“Well, actually,” he clears his throat, “A couple of us are going out tonight. You should come along. And bring your friend, of course.”

“You sure?” she raises an eyebrow.

“Of course,” he tries a quick smile this time, “Naturally.”

She eyes him doubtfully. She has a slump about her shoulders that's been there, sometimes, ever since he first met her, and the only change to indicate any interest is the way her eyebrows rise.

“All right,” she agrees, swinging the kettle a bit with her step, “Thanks.”

At times, she does make him wonder if his people-reading skills are not what they should be. Other times, he reminds himself that he has known Daisy a couple years, now; and even if he doesn't tell her as much as is perhaps expected in tightly-formed friendships, and she doesn't tell him anything - anything at all - about why she's no longer a cop, they are friends. They're good friends. He'd let her stay on his couch for a few months, if he had to.

“I'll text you the details,” he says.

*

It’s far too early for celebration, in Jon’s opinion, but at least it’s of the less official sort. Tim had insisted on it, keeping everything simple - just an evening at the pub with the guys - but even now they refuse to call it what it is: a jinx waiting to happen.

The pub is full, no surprise on a Friday evening, and the music is subdued (or maybe made less noticeable by the calming and level chatter of patrons). There is a retro jukebox in the corner, old posters on the walls, some photographs on the board behind the bar. It's a nice place, dim but warm, and if not for the worry lurking in the back of his mind, Jon would be having quite a pleasant time.

“To many successes,” Tim says, raising a beer, “For all of us, and not just one particular person, who may or may not be present.”

Sasha buries her face in her hands for a moment, then laughs.

Jon looks away. His gaze accidentally moves over Martin, catching him looking as well; the worry on his face is so obvious that he wants to wipe it off with a napkin. He knows they’re thinking the same thing.

“Hypothetically speaking, congratulations on your many, many future achievements,” Tim continues.

“Touch wood,” Martin says helpfully, raising his beer.

Sasha grins in response, holding tightly onto her beer. Jon gives her a look.

“Funny you should say that,” she ushers the group closer with a conspiratorial wave of her hand. He leans in, the others moving in turn. Sasha’s eyes dart back and forth between them before her composure cracks. She gives Tim an apologetic look before launching into lively chatter.

“Gertrude called me in this morning to work out a rehearsal schedule. It’s a done deal!” She can barely keep the excitement out of her voice. The group cheers in response; Tim’s the loudest of all. He starts going on about a toast, loud and boisterous, Sasha crushed to his side; Jon, confused and looking blankly around the table, ends up mouthing along and laughing at the absurdity.

He realises he truly has no idea how Gertrude and Elias coordinate. He’s heard nothing of this, that’s for sure—but as used as he is to the sight of them at each other’s throats, they do not make these sorts of decisions separately. They would’ve killed each other by now.

“Oh!” Tim smacks the table, “Oh, is Daisy coming? Thought she was coming.”

Jon shifts uncomfortably. “She was supposed to be here, yes.” His anxiety skyrockets, making him scratch his arms. “I’ll give her a ring.”

He gets off the bar stool and makes his way to the door. It’s not a big pub, so he slips outside, into the cool night air. The evenings have been getting chilly, and his breath forms a cloud of vapour in front of him, but he decides he can take a few minutes of it and rubs warmth into his arms.

The orange light of the lanterns casts multiple shadows as he paces back and forth, waiting for Daisy to pick up. He stuffs his free hand in his pocket, feeling his skin getting numb from the cold, and listens to the dial tone.

He walks along the dark brick of the wall until he reaches the drain, then goes back. A group of chattering men passes him by.

The call gets disconnected. He decides to try one more time before he walks back inside and forgets the whole thing, but the door to the pub opens with a click and out comes Martin, immediately bunching his shoulders and shivering all over, but clutching Jon’s coat to his chest.

“Hi,” he says, biting his lip. The warm light brings out the myriad of oranges and browns in his messy hair and the scruffy semblance of a beard growing in along his jaw. His lashes are almost yellow. He holds out the coat. “It’s cold.”

Jon takes it from him, finding his own gestures harsh and jerky, and pulls it over his shoulders.

“Thank you.”

His phone vibrates in his hand, then does so again, and he realises Daisy’s name on the display. Martin quickly backtracks and removes himself, disappearing in the warm glow of the pub, and Jon has to remind himself to pick up.

“Where are you?”

“Sorry, got held up at the Theatre,” she says, “I’m actually almost there—and I see you.”

Jon glances down the street, then the other way, and sees two silhouettes approaching under the yellow lanterns. Daisy comes into view with another woman beside her, about a head shorter and not as staunch.

“This is my friend,” Daisy says as they come closer, pulling a hat off her shaved head, “Basira, Jon.”

Jon blinks. “Of… of course. We’re right—”

He pulls the door open for them and follows the two inside, wondering if Basira could possibly be police. It wouldn’t be a surprise, Daisy hadn’t made many friends since she was kicked off the force, and those that remain from her cop days are few and far in between. As they all sit - around a table this time, in one of the booths shoved under the wall - and a quick round of introductions begins, followed by more drinks, Daisy leans over to Jon.

“All cop topics are off limits.”

“Understood,” he mutters back.

“Good.”

“And-and-and—,” Martin is saying, and Jon’s stomach drops. “And that’s just a little weird, you know, is all I’m saying.”

“What are you talking about?” Daisy chimes in.

Tim isn’t smiling. His brow has the smallest crease in it, interest and a vague warning beginning to show in his eyes.

“Yes, Martin,” Jon leans in slightly, “What are you talking about?”

Martin is flushed, his eyes large. “Sorry, Jon, I just—worry, you know. Of-of-of course, Sasha, congratulations and all, it’s just a little odd that the Magnus Theatre can’t seem to keep a star for longer than—a few months, at the most.”

He fumbles with his almost-empty glass. Jon has never taken him for a lightweight, but he supposes he was outside for a while.

“Maybe they all just weren’t good enough,” Tim says, though it clearly takes him a moment, and he throws an arm around Sasha’s shoulders and squeezes her to his side, giving her a good shake. “If anyone can do it, it’s Sash!”

Sasha smiles at him, but slumps when he lets her go.

“What do you mean?” Basira asks suddenly, and Jon realises she’s watching Martin with interest.

“Well, our—boss,” Martin shrugs with one shoulder, hands moving animatedly, “He’s kind of a—kind of a hardass, if I’m being completely honest, and he’s recently promoted Sasha here. And I’m worried he’s being… disingenuous.”

Tim’s frown deepens. Jon half-expects him to shut Martin up, but instead, he takes a quick drink from his glass and rests his elbows on the table.

“Have you noticed anything?”

Sasha discreetly squeezes her hand into the crook of his arm, but doesn’t manage to pull him back.

“Jon, are you in on this?” Tim asks, turning sharply.

Jon feels Martin shift closer to him. He can sense Basira’s presence acutely; awkwardness crawls over his skin. There is really no way to avoid it.

“It’s true, Martin’s come to some… worrying conclusions,” he admits with a sigh, “But they’re not founded in anything concrete.”

“Yeah, except that he’s an arsehole,” Martin pouts. Jon quickly moves the bowl of crisps in his direction and succeeds in getting him to start eating.

“You’re right about that,” Tim sighs, even though Martin is not paying attention anymore.

Basira cocks an eyebrow. “I know a thing or two about shitty bosses. Try me.”

“It’s not even just that he’s shitty,” Martin glances up and swallows his bite, “It’s just how _shady_ it all is. I mean, who here has worked at the theatre the longest? Jon? Jon, Tim—have you ever known him to keep a dancer in the limelight for longer than a few seasons?”

Tim sighs. “That doesn’t—”

“No,” Jon agrees, “He hasn’t. James Wright and Richard Mendelson were both fired for no discernible reason just as their careers were beginning to take off. The theatre hasn’t done well since Elsa von Closen, and even she left eventually under mysterious circumstances. That was over a decade ago.” He pulls in a breath. “Also—just before Martin came to me, someone went through my desk. My entire office, in fact.”

Basira leans in. “Do you have any actual proof of this? Anything missing?”

Jon reluctantly shakes his head.

“Nothing missing, just out of place.”

Tim scoffs. “Christ, you’re worse than Martin.”

“I am not saying it was Elias!” Jon hisses, “I'm saying there are things about the Theatre that don't make _sense._ ”

Sasha waves her hands, drawing the entire table’s attention. She swallows the drink in her mouth and places her palms flat on either side of her glass.

“Are you really surprised there hasn’t been anyone good enough to challenge _Elias Bouchard,_ even in the past two decades?” she says, her voice raised as if she'd been waiting to chime in for a while, “The man was a legend. This is ridiculous.”

Jon can’t argue with that, and clearly neither can Martin, because he suddenly takes a vivid interest in the crisps. Jon doesn’t know much about the technical side of ballet, but he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t looked up some old, grainy footage from Elias’ performances when he first got hired, well after Elias’ career had ended. Something had shifted in his stomach, his jaw physically dropping after the first jump.

“Obviously not that big of a legend,” Tim grumbles, “What’s he doing as Head in a stuffy old hole like the Magnus Theatre?”

Sasha elbows him in the ribs, so unexpectedly that Jon flinches on his behalf.

“He got hurt, you prick,” she hisses, “He couldn’t keep going.”

“Wait, what?” Daisy chimes in, “What happened?”

Sasha noticeably deflates. “I don’t know, exactly,” she replies, voice falling back to a softer tone, “There’s a video of it floating around somewhere, but I haven’t seen it. Doesn’t seem right.”

Silence falls at the table for a moment. To be fair, Jon had heard about the injury before, but he hadn’t watched that particular video. The rest just look honestly surprised.

Basira glances between them. “So how is your theatre still open, if it’s run so poorly?”

Jon tries not to take that as an insult to his own work. His job is difficult, and most of the time goes unappreciated; the audience directly experiences the work of the dancers, the designers, the musicians, but hardly anyone gives thought to the shepherd who wrangles them. He doesn't take issue with this, but something about Basira's comment stings.

“It has a grand reputation,” he says calmly, braiding his fingers and pushing down his own annoyance, “And wealthy sponsors who are all personal friends of Elias'.”

Basira tilts her head to the side. “All of them?”

The table falls into more numb, disappointed quiet. Indeed, it's quite obvious—it's the money, it's always the money. Jon makes enough to paint the hours and stress as bearable, and for the dancers, the place itself—and Elias' name to back them—is worth it. It just doesn't seem like it should be.

“Well, fuck all of that,” Tim slams his hand on the table with a clink of glasses, “We're here because Elias has finally deemed to notice Sash, and that's a good thing. Worst case scenario, you use him as a springboard and get even higher.”

Sasha smiles at him. “Thanks, Tim.”

“So what show are you doing, anyway?” Basira asks, and the conversation is gradually revived as they begin to speak up about different aspects of the Theatre and some of Elias' more harmless organisational quirks.

Jon finds himself relaxing. While he is not at all convinced his (and Martin's) concerns are unwarranted, it does feel slightly ridiculous to let his thoughts run unchecked into conspiracy or sabotage theory. Elias, while snappy, egotistical and demanding, is also a classic tortured artist. Any number of his idiosyncrasies and spontaneous firing habit could be justified by that.

The thought does creep in that Martin is an artist; that Sasha is, too, and they manage to treat people well, but that forces him to examine his own short temper and harshness, and leads to the easier conclusion:

Maybe they just don't get it.

*

They end up staying at the bar far longer than Jon had intended. It's midnight by the time they finally leave, politely ushered out by the staff; Daisy and Basira split up at the door, Tim and Sasha head in the same direction, and Jon finds himself walking to the Tube alongside Martin.

It's freezing cold, and the slowly creeping hunger makes his stomach growl. He wraps his arms around it and pushes on.

Martin is telling him something. He isn't listening too carefully; not ignoring him, either, but it seems Martin has accepted he's not going to reply. He watches his own shadow grow before him, then vanish with every new lantern. It's quiet.

“Are you hungry?”

“Sorry?”

“Are you… hungry,” Martin repeats, no longer like a question.

Jon blinks. He _is_ hungry, but he's not sure what Martin is getting at with the question - and where he would've found only annoyance a month ago, he discovers slight curiosity.

“Yes, I am,” he says.

Martin doesn't smile. He looks nervous and vividly awake. “Do you want to get Vietnamese?”

Jon nods and they stop by a tiny walk-in restaurant with a stylized name and a few cheap red lanterns hanging above the door. The lights are on and there is a young, extremely bored girl behind the counter. There are two or three narrow yellow tables, only one in the corner occupied by three students talking quietly among themselves. They don't notice them entering.

They order. Martin picks two sets of single-use chopsticks from the container and they sit at one of the tables. Their food arrives quickly, but as soon as Jon smells it, he is hit by a wave of memories, and he has to smile.

“What?” Martin asks from across the table, smiling as well.

“Uni,” he mutters and stuffs a pile of noodles in his mouth.

Martin sips his soup. He thinks for a moment, then looks up. “Were you in theatre before this job?”

Jon sputters. “Ah… yes.”

Martin's eyes go wide. “Really?”

“Yes. How about you?”

“No-no-no, you're not getting off that easy,” Martin laughs, covering his mouth. That seems like such a shame. Jon wants to pull his hand away. “Tell me more about that.”

Jon feels his cheeks getting hot.

“It really wasn't that remarkable,” he says, stumbling, “It was fun, of course, but that was partly because of my… girlfriend, at the time.”

He tells himself he doesn't see the way Martin's face sinks at that.

“After university, I knew I wanted to stay in theatre, but not… acting, that's—not for me.”

“Wait,” Martin blinks, “So you didn't do management, or anything like that?”

“Oh,” Jon feels another wave of heat hit his face, “No, I did, later on, it just wasn't very interesting.”

Martin smiles. There is a certain warmth about him that Jon usually associates with grandmothers, constantly serving tea and biscuits, and shortbread that turns to butter paste in your mouth; but it's not exactly that. It has an edge of uncertainty to it; not much insistence; no confidence. It's the kind of warmth that feels like it might flutter away if startled.

Jon realises he has missed his cue. Martin is staring into his soup, eyes lost.

“I feel a little bad for dropping all of that on, um, Basira,” he says after a moment, his tone completely changed, “I think I had too much to drink.”

“I wouldn't worry,” Jon raises an eyebrow. “It was hardly drunken rambling, and I'm sure she found it entertaining, at least.”

“Well, as long as I'm entertaining,” Martin wiggles his head from side to side and lets out a slightly self-deprecating laugh. He swallows. “You're not going to tell Elias, are you?”

Jon balks. “Of course not!”

“Sorry! I'm sorry. I just get… anxious,” Martin shrugs.

“It's fine, Martin,” Jon raises his eyebrows, patching up the surprisingly deep wound that question opened, “He _is_ an ass.”

Martin scrunches his nose and narrows his eyes. “I mean, he _is,_ isn't he?” he says, emboldened, and Jon laughs.

“I do want to keep this job,” Martin's smile slowly dies, “Sometimes I feel like I’m just one mistake away from getting fired.”

Jon pokes around in his food.

“You should have more confidence in your work,” he mutters.

Martin glances up at him. “Thanks.”

Jon makes a non-committal movement with his shoulder and quickly stuffs some more noodles in his mouth. He doesn't like how open Martin's face is when they're alone. He doesn't like that normally-blank eyes become animated and bright.

He ignores it.


End file.
